


Delineation

by sarcasticsra



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Compare and Contrast, M/M, Parallels, Season/Series 03 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-15
Updated: 2013-10-15
Packaged: 2017-12-29 11:24:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1004860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcasticsra/pseuds/sarcasticsra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>You don't need guarantees</i>
  <br/>
  <i>You just want something to build</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Before you turn to the knife</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Delineation

**Author's Note:**

> I FINALLY BESTED YOU, FIC. It's been slow-going, lol. Contains spoilers for 3x01 and 3x02.
> 
> Thanks for the beta, Kat! And also the title, because titles are eeeeevil.

  
**i.) apparent;**

_a. ostensible_  


“I never got a good look at that.”

Anthony knows that tone, mild as it is—and, to be fair, his boss is never anything but mild, or at least that’s the way it seems from the outside. It’s one of the things he likes most about him. Anyone can shout to gain control of a situation, but in his experience, it’s a lot more impressive if you can do it without raising your voice above that of a stern teacher lecturing a disruptive classroom.

Still, there are variations on the theme—it’s a theme Anthony knows well—and this one holds an undercurrent of admonishment and concern, which makes sense, given he’s talking about an injury Anthony sustained earlier in the day.

“It’s nothing, boss. I’ll be fine.”

Elias merely raises both his eyebrows. Anthony moves closer without another word, letting him inspect the cut on his head. 

He tsks in disapproval. “Did you even bother to clean this up?”

“It stopped bleeding, didn’t it?”

He sighs almost theatrically and shakes his head, gesturing him over to the sink. He pulls a few things out of the cabinet: some bandages, hydrogen peroxide, cotton swabs, and wordlessly starts cleaning up the cut. 

Anthony knows a lot about Carl Elias. He knows his boss cares about all his guys, he knows his boss values and rewards loyalty, and he knows his boss has his own unshakeable code of honor that may not always make sense to him but makes him respect him more.

He knows this is unusual, sitting perfectly, exactly still while his boss bandages his head, featherlight brushes of skin on skin, and he knows he has no idea if he has any right to name it. He wants to.

“I know I ask you to do a lot for me,” he says. “I don’t suppose we could add taking proper care of yourself to the list?”

Anthony gives him a slow smile. “I dunno, boss. You’re pretty good at doing it for me.”

It’s borderline, he thinks, as far as responses go—it could be suggestive, or maybe just appreciative—and that’s what he was aiming for, hoping to strike the right balance. 

His boss gives him an appraising look as he puts away the supplies and washes his hands. He dries them carefully on a towel, looking away, and for a second Anthony wonders if he’s pushed too far, at least until he meets his eyes again.

Anthony’s always been drawn to people who can hide everything in a glance and then reveal it in another—but only when they choose, not a second before. He can see a lot in that look, a lot that before he could’ve only guessed at.

“I demand a lot of you,” he says again, “but there are some things I won’t ask for.”

Anthony licks his lips. “You can ask me for anything you want, boss.”

He smiles, eyes crinkling, and says, “You really mean that, don‘t you,” and it’s not really a question, so Anthony doesn’t answer. “I pride myself on being able to read people, Anthony,” he says next, “but even I have to admit that bias can occasionally find a way in. That’s why I’m very careful when it comes to what I really want. If I’ve misread this situation, please correct me.”

“Situation’s exactly what you think it is, as far as I can tell,” Anthony says, and then he’s being kissed, urgently, tenderly, and he surrenders to it, thinking it’s probably okay that he sort of lied just then. A situation is rarely _exactly_ what anyone thinks it is, anyway, and of course that’s true in this case: kissing Carl Elias and being kissed by him, being pressed against the sink, his boss’s hands on him, moving with both gentleness and passion, the way that makes him feel. There’s a lot more to it than just simple want.

But he knows his boss is a smart man. He’s probably already figured that out.

  
**i.) apparent;**

_b. obvious_  


John holds the door open for Harold, glancing around the interior of the place he picked for dinner. It’s nice but nothing special, as far as he can tell—the kind of Italian restaurant any upper middle class guy might bring a date or have a business lunch.

“Looks can be deceiving, Mr. Reese,” Harold says, and John hides a smile as Harold gives the maitre’d the name he used for their reservation—Crane, as it turns out.

They follow him to a booth, properly and blandly appointed, and John is about to open his menu when Harold shakes his head, just barely. He smiles cordially at their server and says, “Could you please tell Mr. Adrian that Harold Crane is here tonight? Thank you.” 

The server nods, like this request makes sense, and vanishes; John sends Harold an amused look. “I like the cloak and dagger routine, Harold. It’s very you.”

Harold merely rolls his eyes. “It’s hardly cloak and dagger.”

“You just gave our waiter a secret password.”

“My name now qualifies as a secret password?”

John smirks. “ _Your_ name?”

That’s when their server reappears with a bottle of red wine and two glasses, and says, “Your first course will be right out, Mr. Crane.”

Harold smiles at him. “Thank you.”

Their dinner turns out to be one of the best meals John has ever had—four courses, each somehow better than the last—and he’s feeling pleasantly buzzed from the wine. They’ve gone through nearly three bottles, which is enough for him to say, “You’re a good date, Harold.”

Harold glances away and then back again before answering. “I’m just glad to see you still have an appetite, Mr. Reese. I’ve noticed you skipping meals.”

“I eat when I have time,” John says dismissively.

“Yes, which is sometimes far too infrequently.”

“Well, then, I guess you’re just going to have to keep taking me out to dinner.”

“Very well,” Harold says, blithely accepting his not-quite-challenge. “I do hope you’ve left room for dessert.”

Dessert arrives a few moments later—tiramisu, placed delicately between them—and John lifts his eyebrows. “Only one plate?”

“Ah,” Harold says, looking anywhere but at his face, “my apologies. I do believe Mr. Adrian has somewhat misinterpreted the nature of our outing.”

John considers that, considers the way the tips of Harold’s ears have turned slightly red, considers the entire evening—an excuse for Harold to feed him, but not just that, he thinks. He could have taken him anywhere for that. Harold has also been trying to _impress_ him, and he can’t help the smile that curves on his lips at the thought of Harold feeling the need to try so hard.

“Or maybe he’s just figured out something we probably should’ve noticed sooner.” He accompanies that with a pointed, knowing look.

The slight startle in Harold’s eyes settles quickly into relief, then decision; he waves over their server, says crisply, “We’ve changed our minds. Could we please have this to go?” 

John absently registers their server agreeing, but he has to admit, he’s a little distracted. Harold’s eyes have gone intense and determined, and really, when he thinks about it, that isn’t much of a surprise, not knowing Harold; when Harold decides on something, it tends to happen. If he decides he wants a gourmet meal at a three-star restaurant, he’s going to have it. 

If he decides he wants John Reese, he’s going to have him.

John’s always considered that to be one of Harold’s more impressive qualities.

(Before they leave the restaurant, John makes sure Mr. Adrian gets a good portion of Harold’s generous tip.)

  
**ii.) sanction;**

_a. penalty_  


“There will, of course, be repercussions,” he hears Elias saying, in the calm tones of a man deciding exactly how much he’s going to make someone else hurt. Anthony sits up, wincing slightly—goddamn Russian bastards—and catches his boss’s eye. “I’ll call you back,” he says into the phone, and then he’s moving closer, giving him an unimpressed look. “Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

“Seemed like one at the time,” Anthony says, and takes inventory: he touches the bandages on his head, feels the ones covering his ribs—two broken, one bruised, is his guess. His face is probably a mess, and he frowns at himself. “Can’t believe I let myself get jumped.”

“Yes, I’m sure it came with an engraved invitation,” Elias says dryly, sitting down on the bed.

“Still my own fault. I know how to watch my back better than that.”

“Anthony,” he says pointedly, both a soft rebuke and an affirmation, and Anthony gives him an innocent look. Elias sighs and drops a kiss on his temple. “You can help me decide which targets to hit.”

There aren’t any lines carefully defining this, or at least there are none that Anthony has been able to see. Sure, there are times when they’re in business mode, and Anthony is his lieutenant first and foremost, and there are times when it’s just the two of them, sharing a quiet moment, and Anthony is just _Anthony_ —but there are always undercurrents in every situation, unmistakable reminders of the other facets of their relationship. It’s a kind of orderly chaos, and he has to admit: he likes it. He’s always chafed under too many rules.

“Got some in mind already, boss?” he asks, and his boss pulls a folded up map out of his pocket, handing it over. Anthony unfolds it carefully, noticing which places have been circled. “A little out of proportion, don’t you think?” Any one of these targets will start a war.

“I did contemplate hitting them all, but I take it that’s not what you meant.” His boss does amused innocence incredibly well.

“They didn’t kill me,” Anthony points out.

“Yes, although I’m sure that was less calculation and more dumb luck on their part.”

Anthony shrugs. “I’m not off limits, boss.”

“I know.” He gives him a wry smile. “Indulge a man in his visceral desire for vengeance, huh?”

Anthony smirks and because he can, he kisses him, a deep, searching kiss that leaves them both a little breathless.

“You’re supposed to be taking it easy.”

“This seems pretty easy to me.” His boss gives him a look that is nothing so much as fond exasperation, and Anthony grins. He adds, “You didn’t need to show me that map, you know.”

Elias smiles. “I wanted to.”

He can admit to himself that he likes that, too. “So where are you really hitting them?” Elias pulls out another map and hands it over, and this one makes much more sense—less overt, more tactical, exactly the man he knows. “I wouldn’t have asked for anything more than this.”

“I know,” he says again, and Anthony hears the undercurrent: _you can_.

“But if you want to screw with ‘em a little,” he says, grinning, “you could always start a rumor using map number one.”

That earns him another smile, this one with a slightly wicked undercurrent, and it’s even more appealing.

  
**ii.) sanction;**

_b. permission_  


“Are you all right, John?” Harold’s voice is brittle in his ear, a forced calm. “And Ms. Davenport?”

“We’re fine, Finch,” he says. Alexa Davenport is a little shaken—understandable, given the three men with the guns—but she seems focused, aware, and willing to do whatever becomes necessary to put Wilkinson away. “We’re headed to the storage locker now. Everything we need should be in there.”

“Be careful, Mr. Reese. I doubt that Mr. Wilkinson’s efforts to prevent this information from becoming public will cease any time soon.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ll call you when I’ve got the flash drive.”

That ends up being more than an hour later, after a few necessary evasive maneuvers. “I’m bringing Alexa to the safehouse, Finch. I’ll meet you at the library after.”

It turns out the evidence Alexa has compiled is extensive—and damning, if Harold’s expressions are any indication. His face first goes pinched and unhappy, and then beyond that, into impassive and bland—except for his eyes, which might as well be lightning. “This corruption is on a scale far more vast and incomprehensible than we first imagined,” he says, finally. John realizes he’s sort of been holding his breath, waiting for a pronouncement, and the cold fury in Harold’s voice rocks him to attention. “Prison is too good for these people.”

John swallows, remembering something he once said to Harold: _That’s pretty mercenary of you, Finch. I kinda like it_. It’d been a jab, a joke, except for all the ways it hadn’t been. “What’s our next move?”

“We take them down,” Harold says, and John wonders if _by any means necessary_ is as implied as he thinks it is.

Wilkinson is still alive at the end of it, and in custody, although a lot worse for wear—John may have been a little more physical than strictly necessary. His second in command is dead, and his third is in the hospital, status still up in the air. He and Harold meet up at the Library and wordlessly decide to take Bear for a walk. Without thinking, John offers Harold his arm, and he’s almost surprised when Harold takes it. After about twenty minutes, Harold stops, hails a cab, and gives the driver the address of John’s loft.

They still haven’t said more than a couple words to each other as they make their way inside; Harold heads for the kitchen and pulls out some of the tea that John has recently started keeping there. He never mentioned it to Harold, that it was _for_ Harold, but he’s not surprised that Harold knows. He expected Harold to know.

“Would you like a cup, John?” Harold finally asks, breaking the silence.

“Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

Harold brings over two mugs of tea a few minutes later. Herbal, he thinks—he can taste the raspberry. Harold sits next to him, close enough that their thighs brush, and John wants to touch him, wants to kiss him; he wants to press in close, wants to feel Harold’s mouth on his neck and his hands on his skin, and, if possible, he wants it to last for days. 

He doesn’t move. There’s a barrier between them tonight, thread-thin and invisible, impassable. He sips his tea and waits for Harold.

“I can’t imagine why you ever allowed me to entertain the notion that I was somehow better than you,” he says finally, setting down his cup on the coffee table. John tries to formulate an answer in the time it takes Harold to pry his own mug from his hands and set it aside, but he fails—and then Harold is kissing him, and he can’t think of anything he could say that’s more important than this.

  
**iii.) chuffed;**

_a. disgruntled_  


He’s jealous. _He_ is fucking _jealous_.

He’s not an idiot. He can recognize what he’s feeling, and he knows the way he wants to slam John Reese’s head in a vice has more to do with the way his boss calls him _John_ than any real security reasons. He always thought jealousy was a stupid emotion, too, a waste of time that he never understood why anyone bothered with, and now that he’s experiencing it, he can see that he was right: it _is_ stupid.

He’s adding this to his rapidly growing list of reasons for wanting to shoot John Reese. It’s a long list.

“You should’ve let me shoot him,” he says when they’re alone, and Elias gives him a small, amused smile.

“Who? John?” he asks, like he doesn’t know. “I don’t know. I think he’s rather useful. Don’t you?”

“He’s a risk,” he says shortly.

“That’s true,” Elias says, obviously considering it. “But a calculated one. I think it’s paid off so far.”

Anthony rolls his neck. “I think he’s more trouble than he’s worth.”

“You really don’t have anything to worry about,” his boss says, once again giving him that small, amused smile. “Even if it weren’t _painfully_ obvious that John belongs to whoever is pulling his strings, my interest is nothing but practical. He’s talented. You know how I feel about talent.”

“Yeah,” he says reluctantly, and he kind of hates himself for it. This entire conversation is stupid; he can’t believe he’s having it, and he badly wants to shoot someone. Hell, at this point, he’d settle for a really nasty bar fight.

“I can’t help but notice that you don’t sound convinced,” Elias says, and he looks more than amused now— _pleased_ seems most accurate. “Anything I can do to help alleviate your concerns?”

Anthony narrows his eyes at him. He’s enjoying this. Of course he is. “You could fuck me,” he says, hoping to catch him off guard. They’re not usually that blunt about it.

His boss only takes it in stride, though. Anthony thinks he should be more annoyed by that, but he actually just finds it impressive, not frustrating. “I don’t have any objection to that,” he says and moves toward him, dragging him toward the makeshift bedroom.

It’s good—it’s always good, that weight on him, in him, that presence holding him there, making him ache for it—and after, he’s still panting, hasn’t even rolled over yet, when Elias says, “Did that do the trick?”

Anthony glances over his shoulder at his boss’s smile, small and knowing. “I still want to shoot him,” he admits, because he does. He’s feeling good enough that he doesn’t mind that he didn’t get to, though. There’s always next time—and John Reese is enough of a pain in the ass that he’s confident there will be a next time.

“If it helps, I’m sure we’ll need to get rid of John some day,” his boss says, eyes glinting. “When that time comes, you can have the honors.”

That does help, especially since it just confirms his instincts. He smirks and stretches, satisfied.

  
**iii.) chuffed;**

_b. delighted_  


The number this time is an easy one—not pretty, but the easy ones never are, and murder for hire is always ugly, no matter how cut and dry. It takes a day and a half, all told, and they even manage to wrap it up in time for a late lunch.

“How does that café on the corner of 7th sound, Harold?”

“I may be a little while yet, Mr. Reese—I need to be sure everything is in place for my successor.”

John couldn’t help but notice that Harold took his cover for this one very seriously—that of a visiting professor at CUNY—and even now that it’s over, he still is. He has to hide his grin behind his fist. “Are you still at the office?” he asks.

“I can’t simply _abandon ship_ , Mr. Reese. These students are paying for an education. They deserve to receive one.”

“Office hours, huh?” He stops bothering to hide his grin. “Anyone stopped by yet?

“No, and I don’t expect anyone to—ah, hello,” Finch says, that last obviously not directed at John, but whoever just walked into his office.

“Hi,” says a cheerful voice in response, clearly female. “I heard you were leaving—already? That’s a shame; I really enjoyed your class this morning.”

“Thank you, Ms. Williams. Unfortunately, my leaving is unavoidable, as regrettable as it is—I’ve had a family emergency.”

“Oh no,” she says. “Is everyone all right?”

“Yes, thankfully, nothing terribly tragic, but it does require my immediate presence out of town, so I’ll be leaving first thing tomorrow. If you’re concerned about who will be taking over your class, you needn’t be—I’ve been assured that your replacement professor will be more than satisfactory.”

“Yeah, she sounds great,” she agrees, and then there’s a significant pause. “So I have to ask, since it seems like my only chance—if you’re not leaving until tomorrow, does that mean you have time to grab a cup of coffee today?”

“I’m—sorry?”

“Have you ever heard the phrase ‘hot for teacher,’ Finch?” John cuts in, unable to help himself.

Harold disconnects, and John frowns at nothing. He keeps calling him back, but Harold doesn’t answer until a full ten minutes later, with a bewildered-sounding, “I’m here, Mr. Reese.”

“Do you have a coffee date?” he asks, because he can’t resist.

“Of course I don’t have—she’s twenty years old!” He sounds appalled. “I can’t believe that she could possibly—she called me _adorable_.”

John feels he can’t be blamed for laughing.

“I’m glad you find this so amusing,” Harold says, sounding long-suffering. “Never mind all that. Did you still want to have lunch?”

“Of course I do, Harold, but I thought you couldn’t just _abandon ship_?”

“I think it may be best if I leave sooner rather than later,” he says, still sounding bewildered, and agrees to meet him at the café.

Lunch is good, uneventful; it’s enjoyable, even if Harold refuses to tell him anything about his admirer. It’s not until they’re leaving that they’re stopped by a young woman—brunette, pretty, bright smile. John feels himself moving closer to Harold, almost without thinking. “Oh, hi again, Dr. Kestrel. Good luck with your family emergency,” she says, and glances back and forth between them. Her smile turns knowing, and in a more conspiratorial tone, she adds, “You could have just said you were with someone, you know.”

Harold’s ears redden, and John smirks. “He tries to avoid that. He’s a very private person,” he tells her, and she just nods understandingly before waving goodbye at them and heading inside. John grins at Harold. “She was right, you know. You are adorable.” 

Harold’s glare doesn’t have any effect on his grin.

  
**iv.) cleave;**

_a. split_  


Anthony knows, of course, that prison really isn’t much of an obstacle for his boss. He’s built up a large network and a lot of loyalty, and really, he’s good enough that he could run the city from Mars if he wanted. Still, he doesn’t like it, Elias inside while he’s still on the outside. He knows he has to be—he has a fucking job to do, after all—but it makes him itch, knowing he’s not the one watching his boss’s back. The bodyguards he has in prison are capable, no question about that, but they’re not _him_. That makes a difference.

His burner cell rings at exactly ten past the hour, their agreed call time for the day. “Have you changed your mind about letting me take care of the bastards responsible for your current housing situation?” he asks without preamble, as he has on every call for the past week.

His boss sighs. “Enough,” he says, firm, and Anthony knows that’s the last time he’ll be asking that question. “You know this doesn’t interfere with my plans. In a way, it almost makes them easier. I have fewer distractions.”

“Yeah, constantly watching out for a shiv in your back, that’s a real stress-free environment.”

“I do have protection, if you remember,” he says dryly.

“You could have better protection,” he replies, stubborn.

“My current protection is more than adequate.” His tone is firm, but still gentle—it’s both the truth and meant to be reassuring.

Anthony blows out a frustrated breath. “What’s the plan for next week?”

They transition to business talk without incident, without really even acknowledging the shift in focus. Anthony thinks that he might like that best about his boss, how easily he juggles so many moving pieces. It extends to every part of his life.

“You know I love a good car bomb,” he says, grinning.

“They are incredibly effective,” Elias agrees, and Anthony’s pretty sure he’s smiling, pleased. “You have a way with explosives, a talent I greatly appreciate.”

“I hope that’s not the only talent of mine you appreciate.” It comes out sounding more suggestive than he meant, but he’s fine with that.

“How could it be, when you have so many?” he returns. “Although I can certainly think of a few I’d prefer to be able to better appreciate. My current housing situation does lend itself to the occasional drawback.”

“You’re the one who said you liked having fewer distractions.”

“I do,” Elias says, “but none of your numerous talents are in any way distracting.”

Anthony smirks. “Then maybe I need to step up my game.”

“Believe me, they’re much better than distracting. They’re _engaging_ ,” he continues, and Anthony grins outright.

“Engaging, huh? I like that. Remind me to show you how _engaging_ I can be when you’re finally back out here where you belong.”

“I’m sure it won’t be for very long,” he says, “and I intend to hold you to that.”

“Good,” Anthony says. “All right, I’m off. I know what I need to do, and given what I already have nailed down, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Thank you, Anthony,” he says. “I know I can count on you.”

They hang up, and Anthony drops the phone and smashes it before chucking the pieces in the river. He still feels itchy, but it’s better—less pressing. 

And anyway, he has a fucking job to do.

  
**iv.) cleave;**

_b. seal_  


“I’m fine, Mr. Reese,” Harold says, for the fifth time that morning, but John doesn’t buy it any more this time than he did the four times before.

“It’s okay not to be, Harold,” he says. Physically, other than some mild dehydration and that cut on his hand, he is fine—but John knows how a kidnapping can affect someone psychologically. Root may not have hurt him much on the surface, but there are plenty of other ways to hurt someone, and most of them are usually worse.

“And yet I _am_ ,” he snaps, “so could you _please_ cease with your incessant hovering?”

John straightens and takes a measured step back, and Harold sighs.

“I’m—I apologize, John, that was uncalled for. I understand that you’re worried, and I’m grateful that you rescued me.” He sighs heavily. 

“I couldn’t just leave you to her, Harold,” he says.

“Yes, so you’ve said. I must admit, I’m curious: how did you manage to find me? I don’t think you said, and she covered her tracks quite well.” He frowns, obviously thinking of something. “Ms. Groves suggested that the Machine might have helped you, but that would be impossible.”

“It’s not,” he says. “Because it did.”

Harold’s eyebrows lift. “It did?”

“I told it I wouldn’t work for it any more if it didn’t help me find you.”

“But that’s—it shouldn’t—I programmed it to do precisely the opposite. You successfully _negotiated_ with it?”

“I called its bluff,” he says, matter-of-fact.

“Precisely—what do you mean?” Harold asks.

“I asked it if it had accounted for everyone being dead.”

“But you—” Harold’s eyes widen. “John. You _held yourself hostage_?”

“And Leon, I guess.” John shrugs.

“But if it hadn’t acquiesced to your demands—”

“Then I never would have found you anyway, so what does it matter?”

“And what about the rest of the numbers?”

“I’m not doing this job without you, Harold,” John tells him seriously. “Whatever that ends up meaning.”

Harold doesn’t say anything for a long moment. “John, would you—come here, please?”

John moves closer, into his personal space, and Harold gently touches him—his hands, his arms, his chest, his face. The touches are—affirming, John thinks, and he likes them. “I had to find you, Harold,” he says after a few moments, and his voice sounds hoarse even by his usual standards.

“Yes,” he says, and draws him in by the neck. The kiss is soft, tender; he sighs into it and somehow isn’t surprised when Harold tugs him forward a few steps, content to follow this through wherever it might lead. They end up on his couch, still kissing deeply enough for him to get lost in it, and Harold trails more touches along his chest, soft stroking caresses that John thinks he could spend hours enjoying. He leans further back against the couch and sighs and presses into every touch, and when Harold moves away from his mouth to nip at his neck, he groans. “Thank you, John. For finding me,” he says, tone a murmur, pulling just far enough away that their eyes meet.

John can’t bring himself to look away, couldn’t even if he wanted to. “Hey, like I said earlier, it seemed only fair,” he says, finally, around a lump in his throat. “You found me first.”

Harold pulls him in for another kiss.

  
**v.) custom;**

_a. specialized_  


Anthony is sleeping when Elias slips into his hospital room, his men already having been subtly alerted to his presence. Detective Carter took some persuading to arrange it, but it’s obvious she’s in a precarious place at the moment—which is very interesting, and may soon prove extremely helpful. Striking a deal to stay out of prison for the time being, even if it requires being less actively involved in his many activities, seemed sensible, and he’s already shifting his strategies, figuring out how this changes his next ten moves.

He’s aware, however, that this part of the deal has very little to do with strategy.

Anthony himself is not free of his machinations, his plans for the future—but he’s always known that, and he’s accepted it, embraced it. Elias marvels sometimes that he found someone not just willing to be his chess piece, but eager. He knows he told Peter and Terney the truth tonight: he’s true to himself—but Anthony is, if possible, even truer. He’s valuable, and as close to irreplaceable as Elias can allow anyone to be. He’s perhaps even closer to irreplaceable than he _should_ have allowed anyone to be.

It’s too late to dwell on that now. That mistake, if it’s been made, is now long in the past, and he doesn’t have any particular inclination to correct it.

He touches Anthony’s hand, gently, and his eyes flutter open. He sees the wall go up, instinct, and then fall right back down when he recognizes him. “Hey, boss,” he says, and Elias smiles.

“Hello yourself,” he says. “Here I wanted to let you know about my recent change of address, and I see you’ve found new accommodations of your own.”

“I’ve been in worse places,” Anthony says, and Elias imagines he would shrug if his shoulder weren’t bandaged up.

“You ought to be in much better places,” he says.

“I’d be out of here already if someone hadn’t arranged company.”

Elias smiles again. He told Leo and David that part of protecting Anthony involved not letting him leave the hospital as soon as he was conscious. “I’m glad to hear they’re doing their jobs.”

“Their jobs are protecting you, boss,” Anthony says, pointed.

“Their jobs are doing whatever I tell them.”

He rolls his eyes. “So when do I get to find out what’s going on?”

“I think it’s a longer story than we have time for right now,” he says. “Although you’re never going to believe who decided to help me.”

“If you say John Reese…”

He smirks. “Detective Carter.”

Anthony’s eyebrows lift. “Huh.”

“I couldn’t have put it better myself,” he says, sitting in the chair next to the bed.

“I’m guessing you don’t have long, then,” he adds.

“Maybe five minutes.”

Anthony smiles, barely, but it’s one of Elias’s favorite expressions to see: acknowledging that he’s valued. He thinks that’s something Anthony should always know, just as he also knows that he’s a tool, a means to an end. It’s always been important to Elias to occasionally remind him that a good workman knows how hard his job would be without versatile, reliable tools.

He supposes most people might find that cold, but he’s fortunate: they’re not most people.

“I can’t wait to see what happens next, boss,” he says, and Elias smiles.

He’s going to hurt them, both HR and the Russians, burn everything down to ash and rubble and build his own empire from the ruins, and Anthony’s going to be by his side while he does, an instrumental part in it all.

“You know what’s going to happen, Anthony,” he tells him. “We’re going to win.”

  
**v.) custom;**

_b. standard_  


“I do wish you would hold still, Mr. Reese,” he says, carefully adjusting the bandage for his ribs.

“You still haven’t let me check that head wound, Harold,” John says, impatient.

“The faster you let me finish, the faster that will happen,” he says, sternly, and John sighs but stops moving. Harold takes his time with him, making sure he’s properly taken care of, before he finally says, “Finished.”

John moves with more haste than is really wise in order to inspect him. He carefully cleans where the vase cut into his scalp and Harold says nothing throughout, sighing occasionally at his own foolishness.

“Not our most successful endeavor,” he says when John finally sits down next to him.

“We’ve had better luck,” John agrees, but then shrugs. “We’ve also had worse. I’ve been shot more than this in one day before.”

“Yes, let’s not relive that now,” Harold says, giving him a pointed look. He’s never been particularly comfortable to be reminded of the many injuries John has sustained during the course of their work, but there’s something about tonight that makes the sting of those reminders all the more acute.

“Harold, I’m fine,” John says, dropping a hand on his shoulder, and Harold tries to take solace in the touch.

He shifts, gently pulling him closer, kissing him. John has a way of melting into him when they do this, going boneless and trying to mould himself perfectly along every contour of Harold’s body, as though he needs to be as close as it’s possible for him to be. They arrange themselves on the couch that way, just kissing, and Harold closes his eyes and wonders when this changed, when he no longer decided to accept this as their joint suicide mission, and why he ever thought that was acceptable in the first place.

“Harold,” John murmurs, kisses his ear.

“We lost today, John,” he says. “Mr. Kruger may have been a dreadful human being, but we appointed ourselves his protectors, and we failed.” He hides behind that _we_ , inaccurate as it is, because he knows John won’t point it out to him. 

“So we’ll do better next time,” John says.

Harold sighs, kisses him again. He’s warm and solid under his hands, but part of Harold can’t help but feel it’s an illusion; he just finished applying incontrovertible proof of how fragile he can be. “We may not always get a next time, if our luck continues along this pattern.”

“Is that what this is?” John asks, meeting his eyes. “Harold, you know it’s going to take a lot more than a bullet to get rid of me.”

“Even so, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t attract them quite so frequently,” he says, and John smirks.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he says, and studies him for a moment. “Something tells me it’s not just me getting hurt that’s bugging you, though.”

“It’s been a long day,” he says. “I suppose I’m feeling it rather acutely.”

“You know you’re not Wayne Kruger, right, Harold?” John asks after a moment, and it startles him, being confronted by that. Of course he knows John well enough to know that John knows _him_ , but even so, there are some things he never expects to hear him say. 

He’s silent for a long moment, wondering if this is something he should articulate, before finally saying, “He had, if you’ll recall, a certain passion for technological advance without giving any proper thought to the ethics. Or the consequences.”

John doesn’t reply to that at first, merely kisses him again, almost an offering. When he finally breaks away, he murmurs, “I trust you, Harold,” and Harold clutches at him, swallowing.

It’s not a revelation, Harold thinks. It’s not even an affirmation.

It’s fact.


End file.
